


stop me if you've heard this one

by losebetter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Public Sex, jesse mccree: tender-hearted hero will be the death of me, or thereabouts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/pseuds/losebetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>love or death. grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish.</i> richard siken.</p><p>--</p><p>“Mmm. And, here, here is the best part of this, Jesse,” Hanzo slurs, afterwards, about oh-two-hundred by Jesse’s estimation. He’s standing around nude in the en suite, and Hanzo looks downright decadent lounging in the wrecked sheets back on the bed, all dark eyes, dark hair that cuts down over one shoulder like spilled ink. His long fingers shift on the flask propped up next to him, and Jesse swears some part of his tattoo ripples with the movement, too eye-catching to have come from the dim ceiling light. Maybe he’s still a little tipsy, but he can’t pretend he’s never seen Hanzo in action before, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenschadenfreude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenschadenfreude/gifts).



> so i wrote this for my roommate [Q](http://queen-schadenfreude.tumblr.com), who is exceptional in every way! thanks as well to [jaz](http://asexualshepard.tumblr.com) & [satan](http://soularch.tumblr.com), for cheerleading and initial reads. seriously, nothing i do would get done or posted without these guys. mwah.
> 
> uh, if some canon-adjacent technology thing doesn't match up perfectly with the lore we already have/any more lore we get, that's because i made it up! i trawled the wiki for a while but i'm no expert on the limitations of this universe (or lack thereof), so i just sorta did what fit. sorry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how i said q was exceptional in every way? well she did **[an illustration for this chapter](http://qsnsfw.tumblr.com/post/146395332020/he-settles-for-facing-away-from-hanzo-a-friendly)** as i was writing, and it is absolutely breathtaking!! i wasn't sure about putting it in with the text for now, but please go put it all over your eyeballs, it's everything i could've ever asked for and more.

The first time Hanzo and Jesse end up in bed together after the İzmir job is a hot mess, and the emphasis depends entirely on who you ask. They don’t actually even _get_ to a bed, and they scramble afterwards to shove an armchair in front of the dent Jesse had made in the shitty motel wall with one of his spurs.

The second time happens right about when they’re finished moving the chair. Jesse takes off his boots this time, shoves his fellow op down into the armchair, and proves he’s not too old a cowboy to be above ‘riding’ puns. He bruises his leg on Hanzo’s hip flask, which incidentally is how they start drinking.

The third time takes them another few hours to get around to, but they _do_ manage to drag themselves into bed this time.

And that’s only the first night.

“Mmm. And, here, here is the best part of this, Jesse,” Hanzo slurs, afterwards, about oh-two-hundred by Jesse’s estimation. He’s standing around nude in the en suite, and Hanzo looks downright decadent lounging in the wrecked sheets back on the bed, all dark eyes, dark hair that cuts down over one shoulder like spilled ink. His long fingers shift on the flask propped up next to him, and Jesse swears some part of his tattoo ripples with the movement, too eye-catching to have come from the dim ceiling light. Maybe he’s still a little tipsy, but he can’t pretend he’s never seen Hanzo in action before, either.

Admittedly, the thought of _magic_ makes him instinctively itchy - _how’re you meant to fight something like that, how do you prepare?_ \- but the idea of going to bed with someone who could destroy him by wishing does something to his spent cock that he doesn’t feel like acknowledging.

He looks away from Hanzo’s tatted up arm and back to the bathroom sink, filling up a tiny plastic cup with lukewarm water. _Out of sight, out of mind_ , he thinks.

(He leans his hips forward against the counter, just enough that the oversensitivity aches, and amends, _sort of_.)

“Yeah?”

“The best part of drinking to forget, is very hard to regret what you do not remember.”

The implications of that very nearly go over Jesse’s head, and it takes him as long as it takes for his water cup to fill to actually parse out what Hanzo is saying. Oh. Well - of course.

“I wouldn’t know,” he drawls. Admittedly, he’s hurt - but he’s certainly not going to judge, either. He turns to lean on the sink and fully face the bed, proud or petty enough to take note of the way Hanzo’s eyes track immediately down between his legs, and he raises the comically small cup to his lips. “I switched to water.” It comes out sounding a little more passive-aggressive than he’d intended, so he adds, “something you should probably think about doing, unless you want to barf all over Miss Oxton tomorrow. Or does your dragon friend take care of that?”

“There are two of them,” Hanzo corrects automatically. He squints. “And, uh, no. Dragons get hangovers.”

It’s such a ridiculous bullshit non-sequitor that Jesse starts laughing - and he doesn’t stop, leaning more heavily against the sink. Fuck, he’s tired, but just when he thinks he’s finished he catches sight of Hanzo’s face and starts up howling again, so hard his stomach hurts.

“What!” Hanzo tries, at first, and when that only makes Jesse double over, empty water cup still in one of his huge hands, he becomes visibly indignant. “ _What_ is so funny! Jesse!” Acting on instinct, apparently, he fumbles for something solid on the nightstand, comes up with the bible, and hurls it at Jesse’s head. He misses by a mile but still catches him on the thigh, and something about the burst of pain just makes it all that much funnier.

“World-class fuckin’ marksman,” Jesse wheezes. He makes a valiant attempt to catch his breath, sees the bible on the bathroom floor, and immediately fucking loses it again.

Honestly, he isn’t sure what he expects to happen after that. He considers picking up the cup again but forgoes it, bending down to stick his mouth under the tap instead and wiping his mouth messily on his forearm when he’s finished. Hanzo isn’t facing him anymore (having rolled over in a huff following his biblical whiff) and Jesse’s about to slip into the other side of the bed beside him, but he makes a quick detour for Hanzo’s prostheses where they’d left them by the chair.

They’re lightweight, certainly easy enough to carry even if Jesse hadn’t carried the rest of Hanzo to bed an hour ago, and he idly taps his own metal fingers against the steel bone as he walks them over to Hanzo’s side of the bed and sets them primly by the nightstand.

He pauses, after, struggling with how domestic it feels (like putting out slippers, but also so very much _not_ that, and that’s what makes it a little too real), and he abruptly feels Hanzo staring at him.

“Problem, sweetheart?” he asks. He wishes he had something to do with his mouth other than stick his foot in it, but he’s not about to light up _now_.

“No,” Hanzo replies mildly. “Thank you for doing that.”

Jesse’s immediate reaction is to reach for the hat he isn’t wearing, an acceptable acknowledgement and a great way to hide his face - but he remembers halfway through moving his arm that he’s naked as the day he was born, so he scratches through his chest hair, instead.

“ ‘Course,” he allows with a quick nod, finally breaking out from under Hanzo’s gaze to circle around to the other side of the bed. “Not sure a’ yer feelings on the awkward morning after, but I ain’t gonna force it like that.”

Hanzo snorts indelicately. “If I wanted to leave, I could do it without them,” he says. He almost sounds affronted, but then he laughs, like he’s made a joke. It’s confusing as hell, but Jesse crawls into the creaky bed anyway, too sated and sleepy to be worried about mixed signals. 

He settles for facing away from Hanzo a friendly distance away, a compromise that Hanzo immediately renders moot when he shuffles forward to cuddle up to Jesse’s back. He’s definitely not asleep, either, and maybe it’s an invitation, but -

Jesse leaves it be. He’s not about to turn and wrap the guy up in his arms, not when he’s feeling this affectionate. It’s how mistakes get made, and they’ve got another job to do tomorrow.

* * *

  
Jesse wakes up on his back to an empty bed, which doesn’t surprise him - but he also wakes up to Hanzo very obviously still in the room, hair up and a simple robe hanging off his shoulders as he organizes his belongings, which certainly does.

“Good morning,” he entreats, without turning around. Figures.

“Hey there.” Jesse clears his throat, taking stock of himself, automatically reaching to adjust the fit of his arm where he’d knocked it around in his sleep. He feels… rested. He feels _good;_ as his body wakes, it thrills at the sensation of having been well-fucked the night before, but he figures that Hanzo was kind enough to stay through the night, the least he can do is wait to jerk off until he showers. “Sleep alright?”

“For a little while.”

Jesse frowns, sitting up and twisting to stretch his shoulders out. “You ain’t sleeping?”

“Every action has consequences.” Hanzo doesn’t even stop folding his clothing. “So, not much.”

Jesse opens his mouth to speak, something about how if it was _that_ bad, he didn’t have to stay to rub it in, but it occurs to him just in time that Hanzo… honestly, probably wasn’t talking about their night together. At least not exclusively.

Fair enough.

“Too true,” he agrees, hoisting himself off the bed with a creak of the mattress and stumbling a step. “Woah. But uh, yeah, I’m about to have some serious consequences myself if I don’t go try to wash some of this off.” He scratches at the dried come on his stomach, picking at it before he can stop himself. Hanzo’s sharp laugh sounds equal parts disgusted and genuinely amused, so Jesse considers it a win. 

He wonders if this means they’re friends, or something close to it, and the thought puts a spring in his step as he heads for the bathroom, careful of the short doorjamb. He and Hanzo aren’t always working together, Jesse doesn’t know too much about him or where he comes from, but he seems like the type who could use a few good friends.

Plus, the sex had been _outstanding_. He almost wants to ask for another round before their mission brief calls in, but he holds back, leaves the en suite door ajar and fucks his fist under the shower thinking about what could’ve happened if Hanzo had peeked his head in, or joined him.

* * *

  
Hanzo’s communicator is still silent when he gets out, so Jesse opts to take his time in front of the mirror. He pulls on his worn jeans and actually makes an effort to stand up straight, looking himself over critically.

Jesse takes care of himself, knows he looks good - he even lets his belt hang open, turning to one side to see how it frames his clothed dick. He checks out the curve of his ass while he’s there, even when taking it that far makes the back of his neck heat up a little. He’s not twenty anymore, not nervously trying to pick up much more experienced guys in clubs he’d had to sneak into. He’s certainly not going anywhere that he’ll have to impress anyone, _but_ , he thinks, _it comes down to the company, don’t it?_

He faces forward again and fumbles with the lukewarm tap to let some water run between his fingers, derisively runs his wet hand through his hair.

“Get a grip,” he admonishes quietly, although he’s certain he deserves worse. He considers the situation: Hanzo is as quick-witted a drinking partner as he is a work partner - he’s clearly accomplished at both - and he’d slept with Jesse with encouragingly enthusiastic consent. He’s devilishly handsome, of course, but -

_Christ -_ and Jesse slouches, abruptly planning to take an early smoke break at the windowsill if he can pry the ancient window open - that’s just _not_ what either of them are fuckin’ here for, their job too important for Jesse’s lonely heart.

He takes a steadying breath and shuts off the sink, thumbing the bathroom light off and walking out just in time to catch a mess of fabric to the face.

“Put that on,” he hears, Hanzo’s no-nonsense voice, and Jesse obeys without thinking, groping around and shrugging his arms into the sleeves of what he discovers is one of his shirts. Hanzo is watching him do it, his gaze judging but not contemptuous. Jesse’s about to ask, but once he has the important buttons done up, Hanzo turns around and swipes across his communicator to bring up a three-dimensional image of their boss, holding his glasses with one precise paw and rubbing the lenses with another.

Jesse surreptitiously tucks the shirt into his pants and buckles his belt.

“Gentlemen,” a tinny approximation of Winston’s voice greets, sounding cheerful despite the resting bitchface. The hologram puts its glasses on and looks around, and Jesse wonders what he sees. “How was your night?”

“The accommodations were shit,” Hanzo answers - and when Jesse starts up a protest ( _hey, now_ \- ), he shushes him with a hand gesture and adds, “the company was fine. What is the plan?”

Winston adjusts his glasses. “You’re both due outside of Nigeria by 17:00,” he reports, with no fuss for their bickering. Jesse is glad for the guy’s single-minded focus sometimes. “Numbani. We wanted you there ASAP to account for displacement sickness and a full debrief, but we can’t risk transporting you directly, so you’ll be meeting with Tracer in the New Silicon Valley and transporting out from there.”

Jesse makes a face. “New Silicon’s about thirty hours from here, boss,” he says, hyperaware of Hanzo’s hard eyes trained on him. “Unless you know somethin’ I don’t.”

“It appears I do,” Winston muses. “The Sacramento station is nearby. The transcontinental can have you there in two hours, give or take, and we’ve already secured tickets for you under pseudonyms.” He stares balefully over the rims of his glasses at the both of them, like an exasperated parent. “ _Please_ use them.”

“The train?” Hanzo asks, at the same time Jesse groans.

“Yes. It’s public, but fast - keep your heads down and you’ll be fine.”

Hanzo’s mouth twitches up at the corner. “Is that wise?”

“For the _last time_ ,” Jesse insists, and he hears Hanzo’s cackle but doesn’t reign it in, “I didn’t steal a train! Some _other_ a-holes tried to steal a train - _hey_ \- I _stopped_ \- ”

“Take care. Winston out.”

* * *

  
“So, uh,” Jesse starts, after he and Hanzo have been walking in silence for a short while, just a shade off companionable but not strictly unpleasant. He itches at the back of his neck and adjusts his bags; a duffel over his left shoulder and a case for his plate armor that’s starting to cramp up his opposite hand. “I forgot to ask. Why this shirt?”

Hanzo tilts his head up, a perfect little mark appearing between his brows when they draw in. “Is it not acceptable?”

Jesse shifts. “No, it’s fine. Just - uhh.” He makes a split-second decision about how much he’s willing to reveal. “Makin’ conversation, I guess.”

Hanzo hums. It feels oddly respectful. “Do you make these conversations with everyone you take to your bed, Mister McCree?”

Ouch. Admitting that he really doesn’t take many people to bed these days feels like adding insult to his own injury, so he holds that particular thought at the gate. “Before, during, and after, if I’m lucky,” he says, instead, and Hanzo barks a quick laugh. Jesse grins. “I never shut up.”

“Mmm, as you say.”

Something about his tone makes Jesse feel weirdly busted for the bravado, but not dismissed. It hits him that he genuinely _likes_ talking to Hanzo - gets a kick out of his dry sense of humor whether it’s turned on him or not. A twinge of panic tickles at the back of his neck like spiderlegs and he reaches up to touch it again, just hopes Hanzo would tell him outright if the feeling wasn’t mutual.

He presses on, determined: “So. No reason, then?”

Hanzo’s lips push out slightly when he’s not doing anything with them, something Jesse has noticed idly before - but until now, he’d somehow missed that they still look just as full when he grins, shows off his teeth.

“Red suits you,” Hanzo explains approvingly, and when Jesse succumbs to an all-over flush, Hanzo looks at him like he’s just been proven right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fic earns its explicit rating for the first time in this chapter, here there be monsters! also, like. guys. holy shit: the response to this fic has been so impossibly positive, i appreciate the hell out of every single one of you. i feel very lucky to have such a gracious audience, and just hope i can deliver something worthy of all the support. (･ω･`*)♡ thanks!!
> 
> this chapter was originally all one chapter along with the following one, but it started getting REALLY long, so i've split them up and will post the next one as soon as it's finished and edited, which should be pretty quickly considering how much of it i've written already, haha. (sorry for not planning this better... orz) peace!

The closer they get to the Sacramento station, the more unnerved Hanzo looks - though Jesse guesses he can understand. He’d operated out of the States for most of his life, relatively unfazed by the long patches of decrepit wasteland, the cluttered remains of a simpler time following the midwestern US’s slip into disrepair. Hanamura, by comparison, had always struck Jesse as bustling and beautiful, the shops crowded with life during the day and the skies peppered with neon lights and paper lanterns alike after sundown.

They haven’t seen another soul since saying their goodbyes to the man who’d sold them the motel room, and though Jesse is used to the dry silence of it, having Hanzo next to him to experience it too is sobering, somehow.

They pass by a rusted out bus next to the road, the tires and doors scavenged to leave an empty husk behind, and Hanzo turns his head to look at it, the peculiar furrow back on his brow. Jesse, for his part, glances to the bus but catches himself staring down at Hanzo’s high ponytail, instead, watching it bob gently as they walk, noting his grey hairs.

He wonders if there are dumps like this outside of Hanamura, if Japan has its own peculiar, abandoned haunts, empty places Hanzo knows of, and shivers. He almost wants to ask, but if what he knows about Genji is any indication, bringing up Hanzo’s past could very well shatter the amiable peace they’ve managed.

Jesse doesn’t risk it.  


* * *

_  
Shimada_ , Morrison had pointed out back at the start - something that had immediately caught Jesse’s attention, as well - _you mean, Shimada clan, Shimada?_

They’d all been gathered at Gibraltr upon Winston’s request, Jesse still woozy from the displacement sickness (‘teleporter funk’) he hadn’t ever missed about Overwatch ops, despite Angela’s reassuring presence. In lieu of anything to do until the rest of the team arrived, those present had set to loitering in Winston’s lab, drinking and catching up and, as it happened, meeting one of their newer teammates.

Hanzo had proven to be a little stiff at first, understandably cautious and reserved, but he’d relaxed a fraction among his fellow soldiers - until Morrison had brought up his name.

_Yes_ , Hanzo had offered, wary. He hadn’t said anything else, which had tipped Jesse off right away, but Morrison - bless his heart - hadn’t been quite as lucky. 

_I wasn’t sure. How_ **_is_ ** _Genji?_

Jesse’d never really been Morrison’s best friend, but _hell_ , no man alive deserved that look, as far as he was concerned.

To his credit, Hanzo had been civil about it - had excused himself and left the rest of them to stew in the awkward misstep. 

In hindsight Jesse is relieved it hadn’t been him to trample all over the subject, and he’s much happier being - friends, question mark - with Hanzo, fraught as it all is. He doesn’t think Hanzo and Morrison have made eye contact (or, well, whatever) since that first day.  


* * *

   
They reach the station in good time - faster than Jesse would’ve expected, actually, but he supposes there’s something to be said for Hanzo’s adamant, tireless stride compared to his own habitual meandering.

Hanzo is wearing what Jesse imagines to be a more conservative fold of his usual dress - both of his shoulders are covered, and he’s got long, slim gloves on underneath that leave his fingers free but hide his tattoo. It’s smart - means the one surefire way to confirm that it’s really him isn’t visible to everyone who glances their way - but Jesse can’t help wondering if he’s hot under all the dark colors. The station is still functional, and there are a few other people dotted across the platform, but the sun glaring through parts of the caved-in roof is proof enough that there isn’t exactly a bustling commute from Sacramento - certainly not enough of one to justify an indoor reprieve from the early morning heat.

Jesse adjusts the duffel bag slung across his sweating back, eyes automatically flicking from one of their fellow passengers to another, to the large announcement board at the center of the platform. He’s removed his own wanted posters from it before, and he doesn’t see any new ones, but there’s no harm in being careful.

He feels Hanzo tense up beside him as a train arrives at the station, only to hear his soft sigh as it stops on the opposite platform, chimes a few times, exchanges passengers, and rolls back out onto the tumbledown tracks again. Huh.

“Don’t travel the bush much?” he asks. It’s more of a desert dump, really, but he doesn’t bother saying so. He can relate.

Hanzo shrugs, somehow managing to make it look graceful. “Where I am from, I did not often go anywhere far enough to warrant use of public transportation.” Jesse tries not to think about that too hard - for such an innocent comment, he gets the sense that it’s littered with nuance and tragedy that has nothing to do with him, and they probably both want to keep it that way. “I am used to it now, but, sometimes it still feels strange to trust something so high up at such a high speed.”

“Oh.” Jesse adjusts his hat. That’s - more honest than he’d expected Hanzo to be, although when he thinks about it he’s not sure what he’d expected instead. “I wouldn’t’ve known,” he assures. “You always seem like nothin’ really gets to you - or, you know, not little things, anyway.” 

When Hanzo glances at him and arches an eyebrow, Jesse grins. “You know. Little things that affect us normal folk, like bein’ afraid of heights.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, unruffled. “I am not afraid of heights. I have mild concerns when I am dependent on shitty construction, as should we all.” Jesse snorts from somewhere in the back of his throat. 

There’s a pause. “And when you are being watched all the time, you become an exceptional liar.”

True enough.

Predictably, Jesse and Hanzo are effectively alone one minute, and the next finds Lena in front of them, Hanzo’s lighter bag already over her shoulder, two fingers pointed out from her forehead in a cheeky salute.

“Howdy!” she chirps, at the same time Jesse splutters and Hanzo scratches his blunt nails down the side of Jesse’s very real arm in an attempt to grab it, betraying his split-second of fear. Lena looks immediately abashed. “Oopsie. Bad morning for surprises?”

Hanzo lets out a labored wheeze, so Jesse takes it upon himself to convince her that everything is as normal as it could be, despite the remembered heat curling in his stomach: “Not too shabby, actually!” He tips his hat. “Just a bit of a walk, but the air was mighty welcome after that shithole we slept in.”

“Ooh, Winston mentioned something about that.”

“Well,” Jesse relents, “it wasn’t that bad, compared to - “

“He means that it was spectacularly bad,” Hanzo interrupts, apparently having recovered from his brief paralysis. He gives Lena a private smile and a little bow of his head, which she returns as a sweeping curtsey. “It is good to see you still in one piece, Miss Oxton. Are you well?”

Lena giggles, easygoing. “ _Hai, genki desu_ ,” she reports cheerfully. Hanzo grants her a respectful smile and she puts her hands on her hips, satisfied. “And bloody excited to be traveling with you lot, you’re like a two-man comedy routine. Oh!” She must have rummaged in her bag, but to Jesse it only registers as a blink, her hand empty and then not, all at once. She holds out a pair of small passport folders. “For you!”

Jesse takes the one with his symbol on it, shimmies the train pass out, and swipes his thumb across the slim screen immediately to wake it up and show his fake name.

God damnit.

“Hanzo. Lemme see yours,” he grumbles. Hanzo arches one eyebrow but turns the projection of his pass slightly so Jesse can see it, confirming his suspicions. “Fuckin’ - I knew it.”

Hanzo tilts his pass back toward himself, looking it over with new scrutiny. “What is it?”

“The name,” he says, and gestures. “Ennis Del Mar?”

For all Lena has covered her mouth politely, obviously having caught on to the joke, Hanzo just stares blankly at him. “Is it strange?”

Jesse sighs, and Lena reaches up to place her small hand on his shoulder. “Chin up, Jack,” she says, as Hanzo peeks at Jesse’s pass, the name ‘Jack Twist’ next to his picture. “I got ‘Marty McFly’ last week, someone’s just got to tell Winston to quit watching so many old movies.”

“And that he ain’t funny?” Jesse grumps good-naturedly. He doesn’t mind, really, but he also wishes everyone would stop bringing up _his_ embarrassing blunder from when he’d introduced himself to Hanzo early on. It hadn’t been ‘how is Genji’ levels of bad, but it had come at great personal cost all the same. Jack Twist, indeed.

“I would _never_ ruin his fun like that! That’s _cruel_ , Jesse!”

“Are you kiddin’? _This_ is cruel - that’d be _justice_.”

* * *

   
Their train arrives shortly after, and their passes scan without a hitch. Lena boards first, and Jesse watches Hanzo’s sure steps falter, just once, one foot over the open chasm between the train and the platform, before he sets it inside and seamlessly makes his way further into the car. Jesse ducks in after him, not sure what to do with the information.

They find their seats - Hanzo and Jesse in one row and Lena across the aisle and one ahead of them - and Jesse swings his duffel bag up onto the luggage rack, mindful of how he’d packed his holstered revolver. The two of them exchange looks and silently agree that Jesse should take the window seat, which he shimmies into affably.

“Not afraid of heights, though?” he teases, once Hanzo is sitting beside him. He sticks the case for his armor under the seat in front of him, then rolls his neck, right to left to right.

“Hmph.” Hanzo, for his part, stretches out his thin legs, brushing creases out of his lightweight pants with one idle hand and rolling his ankles with a series of metallic clicks. Apparently neither of them were built for sitting still this way, and the thought makes Jesse smile.

It also makes him wonder how they’re going to survive two hours of it, but he’s trying to stay positive. At least they’ve got legroom.

He adjusts his hat and leans a little more heavily against the train’s wall, sleepy gaze sliding toward the window. The train starts shifting, though, the telltale rattling from above them signaling the car’s supports starting to roll down the tracks again, and Jesse’s eyelids droop even further.

He hears Hanzo rustling around in his bag (a small pouch he wears across his back that Jesse had heard him in a heated argument with Fawkes about as to whether it was a purse or not) and cracks one eye open to see him unwinding a pair of earphones from their obnoxiously perfect coil. He presses the buds into his ears one at a time with a couple of endearing little tilts of his head, fusses with a small device in his lap, then relaxes, apparently satisfied.

Jesse can’t tell what he’s listening to, and that puzzle drags him even more quickly toward sleep than the lull of the train tracks. What kind of music does he like? Jesse has no idea. Is he even listening to music, or is it an audiobook of some sort, or a radio show? If so, what kind? Which language would it be in?

His curiosity is overwhelming, but it’s not enough to push away the creature comforts of the clattering train, of being relaxed with his thigh touching Hanzo’s, of being physically close to someone he likes with nowhere else to be, his body still feeling the pleasant aftermath of the night before. He pulls his hat down over his face, and he’s asleep a few steady breaths later.  


* * *

  
Jesse can’t help the direction his thoughts take while he dozes - he aches for the wall, the armchair, the shitty bed. Hanzo’s solid thigh against his probably isn’t helping, but it feels too good for him to justify shifting away.

Something paws at his awareness, like he’s being watched, but -

He jerks, waking with a gasp at the feeling of steady fingers spread across his knee, five meticulous points of contact. It actually takes him a moment to realize they aren’t his own, and he can practically feel that realization dooming him, stringing him up.

Jesse’s cock stirs in his jeans but he doesn’t dare spread his legs - he barely has the courage to look Hanzo’s way, to make some movement toward understanding the hand on his knee.

Barely.

Hanzo isn’t looking at him, at first - he’s staring into the middle distance down the aisle, expression giving nothing away. Hell, his earphones are even still in. But the fingers on Jesse’s knee squeeze, once, not an accident at all, and when he covertly slides his eyes Jesse’s way, something warm pools low in his gut. All of a sudden his next breath is shallow with arousal, like he’s truly feeling the train’s breathless suspension for the first time. The track still bumps them around every few seconds, rhythmic but barely noticeable - until Hanzo uses one of these bumps to slip his hand from Jesse’s kneecap around to the inside of his knee, and Jesse shivers.

Jesse watches Hanzo’s lidded eyes, struck by the cut of his eyelashes but even moreso by the way he can see him glancing down toward Jesse’s dick and back up again, by the unsteady breath Jesse hears him take in afterwards - like whatever this is, they’re both feeling it. It’s equally comforting and terrifying.

“Hanzo,” he whispers. _Are we really doing this?_

The look he gets in response throws him off-kilter even more, his heart already hammering in his chest. There’s an appealing blush across Hanzo’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and he purses his lips, the corners of his eyes tilting mischievously like there’s a smile hiding there, somewhere. It’s as much a _yes_ as anything Jesse’s ever seen.

And then Hanzo stops touching him. Jesse bites down a gasp, more confused than anything, but he watches Hanzo take the hand off his leg and - reach up to start removing his earphones. Oh. 

His face gives nothing away - _when you are being watched all the time, you become an exceptional liar_ \- and his movements are clearly the result of great effort, though Jesse tracks a tremble down one of his forearms. He uses a hand and two fingers to wind up the cord again, wrapping it methodically over his knuckles, around and around, and Jesse _really_ shouldn’t be so affected by something so mundane, but he’s starting to think there’s nothing mundane about Hanzo at all, not even close. 

Despite the tension, his movements aren’t rushed, and Jesse follows them with his eyes, enraptured. The only tell that he’s in more of a hurry than he lets on is when he finishes with the cord and puts it in a fold on his pants (what Jesse assumes is a pocket) instead of replacing it in his bag.

The whole thing had been unnecessarily hot by every standard, so when Hanzo immediately goes back to touching his knee, Jesse has to clench his teeth on a whine, his thighs tensing up.

“Do you want to do this here?” Hanzo murmurs. He inclines his head toward Jesse, flicks his eyes toward the aisle as a means of drawing his attention to it. He trails his thumb lower on Jesse’s thigh, scraping the seam of his jeans with his nail. “We are not alone.”

Jesse swallows thickly. Somehow he hadn’t quite caught his bearings after waking, but that brings it all into sharp focus. Lena is slouched in her seat, some kind of portable video game player in her hands - she isn’t exactly close to them, but she sure as hell ain’t far away, either. Other things trickle into Jesse’s awareness: passengers behind and in front of them, the gentle rocking of the train, the ground who knows how many feet below them, speeding mercilessly by out the window.

He doesn’t know what part of him takes all of this in and still thinks, _yes, yes I want to do this here_ , hasn’t ever experienced a rush of dirty embarrassment quite like the one he feels about the followup thought ( _this is the best place to do it, actually, here where we might get caught_ ) - whatever it is, he definitely doesn’t want to make Hanzo aware of it if he can help it. He already feels desperate and Hanzo’s barely touched him.

“Yeah,” Jesse breathes. His stomach swoops. “ _Please_.”

Apparently, he doesn’t need any more convincing than that - Jesse bites his lip as Hanzo’s hand drifts up his thigh, and nearly kicks the seat in front of him when he doesn’t waste any time going for his clothed dick. His hand is warm, and his thin fingers feel amazing even through stiff denim as Jesse starts getting hard, nudging them out. 

He starts being able to feel the strain of his inseam, the corner of his belt buckle against his cock, and it’s already too much - he turns his head to rest his overheating cheek on the seat, his breaths humid and slow. He forces his eyes shut when Hanzo gives him a squeeze with the heel of his palm, burying his fingers between Jesse’s balls and the seat and pressing his thumb hard against him to make him twitch.

“Hh - uhh,” he tries, and feels fresh heat bloom across his cheeks when Hanzo leans in closer, shushing him. Jesse feels dizzy, and every shift of the train car just pushes him harder against Hanzo’s palm.

“Mmm. You do not want anyone to hear you, do you?” Hanzo croons, his voice rough. The massage of his thumb pauses, and Jesse takes his chance to breathe. “Or do you.”

“I - " Jesse starts, but it feels too loud, so he deliberately tries a whisper. “I, I don’ know,” he hedges. He feels incredible, his body pleasantly hot all over, but his thoughts scatter when he reaches for them. “Maybe.”

Hanzo is close enough to him that when he grins, Jesse can hear the slick separation of his lips. He wants to feel his teeth against his skin, and the thought makes his hips jerk irresistibly into Hanzo’s hand.

“ _God_ ,” he breathes, sounding about as amazed as Jesse feels. Jesse tracks the bob of his throat when he swallows. “You _are_ full of surprises.”

Jesse worries his bottom lip between his teeth, inching his legs a little further apart. The part of his brain that’s fighting for an orgasm is really kicking his ass, but as he barrels towards it the more logical part of him squirms uncomfortably in his stomach. He can’t - they can’t - he’s not going on the job with hours-dry spunk all over his dick, and it hits him that if they keep going at this rate, he will absolutely be doing that.

He wavers, though, especially when Hanzo shifts his fingers and resettles them. When the pad of his thumb manages to catch Jesse’s trapped dick just under the sensitive head, tweaking it, Jesse abruptly grabs for his arm with a hiss.

“Okay - a - alright,” he pleads, even as heat quirks at the base of his spine and makes him shudder.

Hanzo doesn’t push it, slipping his wrist out of Jesse’s conflicted grasp to rest on his inner thigh again. Waiting.

“Hell,” he seethes. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, against the unforgiving pressure of his jeans.

“Is everything okay?” Hanzo murmurs, his touch gentle but sure.

Jesse can feel sweat on the back of his neck, the ends of his hair a little damp. “Oh yeah,” he promises. “M - more than okay.” He gulps. “ _Too_ okay, actually,” he confesses.

Hanzo hums, but Jesse takes in a terse breath and reaches for his hand, stopping it before he can slide it back across his dick - it ends up with him just… holding Hanzo’s hand against his thigh, something that clearly hasn’t escaped Hanzo’s notice. He nudges his fingers between Jesse’s, and something about the movement feels wry.

“If you wanted to hold my hand, you coulda just asked,” Jesse breathes. His heart is racing, still, and he can feel his flushed skin, but he tries to be casual about it.

“I wanted - " Hanzo says, and then hesitates, like stepping over the gap. “I wanted to touch you,” he admits, and Jesse’s toes curl in his boots.

“Y - yeah?”

Jesse checks his face just in time to see his pink tongue dart out to wet his lips. God forgive him.

Hanzo’s gaze, when he flicks it back up to meet Jesse’s eyes, is dark, his pupils blown.

“I - yes. Since last night,” he whispers, fervent. “I have been - thinking - "

“ _The next station is: New Silicon Valley West_ ,” crackles a chipper voice over the intercom, and they both almost jump out of their fucking skins. They separate their hands like they’ve been burned and Jesse slouches, the hard-on and the heart attack almost too much to deal with at once. “ _Estimated arrival time is: nine, fifty-six._ ”

Jesse surreptitiously checks his watch. Less than fifteen minutes. He looks up to meet Hanzo’s eyes, and they stare at each other, unable to do much more than that. Hanzo’s ears are bright red and his eyes are wide, like he’d been scolded.

Suddenly afraid that he’s ruined it, Jesse raises his eyebrows to get his attention. _Later_ , he mouths, twisting it like a question.  _Later?_

Hanzo flicks his eyes to Lena ahead of them, sitting up but not looking away from the screens of her game. Then he looks back to Jesse, and very carefully nods.

Later, then. He can live with that.  


* * *

  
Short-range teleportation technology has come a long way within the last ten years or so, Jesse is willing to admit that much. Even without hard-light technology in controversial hands, the common people have been rapidly learning how to get from where they are to where they need to be more efficiently since before he was born. Hell, the transcontinental itself is proof of that, and the hypertrain after it - and apparently, no one is satisfied with stopping there.

Truth be told, it’s saved his ass more than once. Knowing the (literal) ins and outs of short-range teleporters is a great way to shake overzealous local officers hoping to catch his head, and it’s begrudgingly convenient to be three blinks away from total anonymity in a crowded hub at any given time. In a place like New Silicon, knowing the location of every teleporter has almost become a survival necessity for someone like Jesse.

Long-range, though…

“There’s no way around it?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. Lena looks up at him sympathetically.

“Sorry, luv,” she confirms. “You didn’t eat anything too heavy on the train, I hope.”

Jesse nearly swallows his cigar at the mention of the train, but he recovers with a cough. “Naw, uh, I’ll - I’ll be fine. Jus’ not a big fan of this shit.”

Logically, he knows that any long-range teleporter he touches is going to be safe, especially compared to some of the truly backwards prototypes he’s heard about on the news. Overwatch, disgraced as it is, still has some of the top scientific minds on its side, and they wouldn’t risk losing agents to displacement or overexposure to hard-light tech. He’s not in any _real_ danger.

In practice, he’s dragging his feet. While the most a long-range teleporter is going to do to him at this point is make him a little uncomfortable for a while, something about the reality of technology that can split him up in San Jose and rebuild him in Kano makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’d prefer a full day of travel to that kind of discomfort, but, well. Duty calls.

It takes them a bit to navigate New Silicon outside of the transcontinental station - it isn’t the sort of hectic tourist trap that some other American cities are, but there’s still the feeling of everything moving too quickly for Jesse to be comfortable, like he’s one blunder from getting recognized and starting a wild chase that he’s really not in the mood for. 

He adjusts his jeans with one hand in the pocket, trying fruitlessly to alleviate the phantom tension from his little adventure on the train. Hanzo pops up beside him when he does it and gives him a subtle smirk that puts Jesse right back where he started. For fuck’s sake.

The wide collar of Hanzo’s robe has slipped open slightly, rumpled from the long train ride maybe, and all Jesse can think about is hauling him into one of the alleys they keep passing and dragging his mouth over his sweat-damp skin, sucking bruises into it that wouldn’t be hidden on the job, just to make him gasp.

Ugh.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” he calls to Lena ahead of him, and she starts walking backwards, hands clasped behind her, “but should I have any idea where we’re headed?”

She chuckles and flicks some hair out of her face with a jerk of her head. “Don’t worry about it!” She blinks into step with him and leans up toward his ear, so Jesse obligingly tips his head further down, shifting his cigar over with his teeth to redirect the smoke away from her face. “We’ve got warehouse space a few blocks from here, that’s all.”

Jesse leans back, checking the crowds over her head. (They hardly stick out as strangely dressed, which Jesse guesses means that everything old movies said about California was true, at least in part. Even if he _had_ shoved his signature hat down into the depths of his bag.)

He raises his arms, twining his fingers together at the back of his neck and letting his elbows stick out, his armor case bumping against his shoulderblades. “And it’ll be a quick trip from there?”

Lena nods. “Quick and easy,” she affirms. She purses her lips. “What’s that you Americans say? ‘Licky’ something?”

“Lickety-split?” Jesse provides, at the same time Hanzo lets out an indignant, _what_. They look at each other, and Jesse hears Lena crack up beside him at the stunned look on Hanzo’s face.

“That’s the one,” she chirps. Hanzo falters.

“That is not real,” he insists. “What does it even mean?”

“It means - y’know, like, fast. Efficient.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because - " Jesse frowns, lowering his arms. “Actually, I got no idea. It does kinda sound like oral sex, don’t it?” 

Lena laughs, a real one that makes her start coughing. It’s adorable as hell, but Jesse sort of regrets bringing it up - even just thinking the words is enough for his traitorous brain to get caught up in memory, flashes of he and Hanzo’s night in Sacramento stuck in his head like still frames.

( - both of them sore and a little tipsy but Jesse insistent, yanking Hanzo in with a growl up by his ear about how _just sitting on it through his clothes ain’t nearly enough_ \- and Hanzo shuddering all over, a wet pant against Jesse’s throat when Jesse had pressed a condom into his palm - )

( - Hanzo inside him, movement so thick and slow that he kept catching the sheet between his toes when they curled up - and _god_ , he’d wanted his dick in him so badly but he drunkenly regrets not asking for it in his mouth first - )

( - _sshhshhsh_ against the crown of his head when it got to be too much, Hanzo balancing with one hand on the bed and using the other to quiet Jesse down, precise fingers stuffed in his mouth because the headboard hitting the wall was enough to condemn them, and Jesse’d needed to relieve the pressure somehow anyway, so close to an orgasm that might as well knock him out - )

Jesse takes ahold of his cigar with his free hand to hold it in place, takes a drag, and lets out a thick billow of smoke. He fucking needs it.

Lena stops at a building that looks like any of the other offices on the block and opens the wide glass door, gesturing Jesse and Hanzo in. They find themselves in a strangely generic lobby, where a woman behind a desk nods at them as if they’d been expected. Overwatch isn’t dumb enough to plaster their logo all over the place, but it’s clear they’ve officially left the public eye.

Jesse wipes at his mouth, suddenly paranoid that he’d been drooling.

“This way,” Lena singsongs, with a wave to the receptionist, and the three of them start winding down corridors seemingly at random, a welcome reprieve from the din of the city. Lena leads them through a few more doors at a thankfully normal pace until they arrive at a small room with a long-range teleporter taking up most of the back wall.

Compared to Ms. Vaswani’s short-range teleporters, slimmer around than Jesse’s shoulders, this kind of hulking device is massive - at least ten feet wide with enough height that even Jesse can easily clear it - and requires huge amounts of energy to be funneled into it just to get it running. Every one Jesse’s ever seen has been at the center of hundreds of tangled up cords and noisy generators, and this one is no exception.

He assumes Winston has something to do with it, maybe powering them up remotely based on what agents are where, but he hasn’t asked and never will. The less he knows, the less he can give away if anyone tries to torture it out of him.

The enormous platform is lit up from within by what he can only describe as a portal, the unnatural blue glow catching on Lena’s goggles, Hanzo’s high cheekbones.

“Well! That was a bloody production, wasn’t it? Are you ready, gents?”

Jesse swallows, taking a moment to stub out his cigar against his metal palm and dropping it to crush it under the toe of his boot. He’s absolutely not ready, but he’ll keep that to himself.

“After you, Miss Oxton,” Hanzo offers.

She giggles. “Right-o. See you on the other side, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” She steps through the portal without a second thought, leaving a flash behind.

Jesse laughs once, but it must sound as pathetic as he feels, because Hanzo turns back to him as Lena leaves, a sympathetic smile on his face. His nerves about Hanzo being unfairly pretty partially bump the ones about the teleporter out of the way, which he guesses is something.

Hanzo nods at him, small and a touch awkward, though not in an unpleasant way. “Um.” Even under the harsh light, Jesse can tell when his cheeks turn a little pink. “See you soon,” he says, and turns on his heel, his back straight. He doesn’t hesitate at all going into it, and Jesse thinks about the train again, his delicate step over the gap.

“Yeah, here’s hopin’,” Jesse murmurs. He steps up to the platform and holds his hand in front of the portal, watching the glow play over his fingers for a second, before he takes in his last breath of California air, squeezes his eyes shut, and ducks through.  


* * *

_  
Welcome_ , Jesse hears, and he takes in a desperate gasp, _to Overwatch Organization Headquarters at Kano. The local time in Nigeria is seventeen, twenty-two. Forward camps from this location are Sierra Leone, Numbani, Morocco Company -_

Jesse aches all over, his head fuckin’ worst of all. He forces his eyes open to see a small crowd in front of him, and instinctively reaches for his chest, his shoulders, his hips - making sure he’s all there. His brain feels scrambled.

All at once, though, he breathes out, feels his blood pumping with enough energy to get him standing up straight. 

“Hey, kids! How was the ride?” Ah, that would explain it.

“Santos,” Jesse greets with a measure of relief. The more he breathes, the better he feels, like Santos’ healing touch had set his heart beating at the right rhythm again. “Thank god.”

Jesse has plenty of experience getting his ass saved by both Santos and Angela - he’s humble enough to admit that they’re both brilliant at what they do, if not the best. Their methods differ - that’d be obvious even if he wasn’t the one feeling it in action in his own body - but this time, Santos’ steady presence is brushing the displacement sickness off him one heartbeat at a time, and he’s grateful for it.

He yawns, another rush of new air into his slowly-acclimating body, and he looks around to see Hanzo and Lena both standing beside him, Lena doing a few stretches. (He glances to Hanzo, looking for some silent comment, but his breathing is unsteady enough that Jesse figures he’s still getting his bearings, too.)

“Lúcio!” Lena calls. Jesse wonders if she’s ever _not_ excited to see someone - then feels mollified that he hasn’t found out yet. He’s certain she has enemies, and he’s idly thankful to not be one of them. “Ride was fine for me - “ she jerks her thumb back at Jesse and Hanzo - “but you might want to make sure these two didn’t leave anything important behind.”

“Hey, now,” Jesse grumbles, and Santos laughs as he starts checking over the two of them with swift, clinical touches to their arms, legs, and backs. He spends an extra half-second or so at the junction of Jesse’s elbow, thumb brushing over the edge of his prosthetic where he’s the most sensitive. When Jesse makes a face and wiggles his fingers, Santos pulls back, evidently satisfied.

“Lookin’ good to me, guys.” He inclines his head toward Hanzo, who Jesse notes is already looking more comfortable. “I’d check your legs, Shimada, but I’m thinkin’ you would know if they’d suddenly called it quits.”

Hanzo hums, amused but not overtly so. “Indeed. I appreciate the thought, however.” He grants Santos a quick smile. “Thank you for meeting us.”

Santos waves off the gratitude and flashes the grin that Jesse’s seen across posters advertising his tour. If the guy wasn’t so damn genuine, he’d probably be a lot harder to like. “No trouble, no trouble - Winston knew y’all’d be a little late anyway - _plus_ it gave me some time to train up while I was waiting.”

He’d lost Jesse, but he’s looking at Lena now, anyway, and he produces what looks like a similar gaming system to the one he’d seen in Lena’s hands on the train. Ah.

“ _No!_ ” Lena challenges, smiling from ear to ear. “Oooh, just you wait, Lúcio, I was practicing strategy the whole train ride!”

“Oh is _that_ what you call it?”

Jesse forces down his reaction to that - sure, she’d been playing video games, but he can’t help but wonder if he and Hanzo were actually the less mature party in this instance. He doesn’t dare look at him, not with the way the back of his neck is growing warm.

Just when he starts to seriously consider how much free time he’ll have to rub one out before their mission brief (he’s honestly slipping very rapidly into the irreversible reality of having a Problem), Santos gestures for them to follow him further into the base.

“Dub said to leave your bags on the main floor, he’ll have someone bring ‘em up to your rooms.”He clearly has more to say, but he stalls out, frowning for the first time since he’d met them at the gate. “Uhh, Hanzo, you… You don’t actually have a room, do you?”

“What!” Lena asks, shocked. She’d plucked the sentiment right out of Jesse’s head. “How could that be?”

Hanzo looks unconcerned at first, but as he talks his expression clouds over, the tweak between his brows right where Jesse remembers it. “I am not… actually a part of Overwatch,” he says. He looks to Santos for confirmation, and Jesse sees him nod sadly.

Good lord, but someone up there might actually be looking out for Jesse -

“Well, hey! I know what we’ll do,” Santos says, the happy-go-lucky grin back in place. “You can stay in mine.”

\- or not.

“I would not want to trouble you,” Hanzo placates, and something in Jesse’s chest does another 360-degree flip.

“Pssshh.” Damnit. “Don’t you worry, man, I gotcha covered - I’ll let boss man know right away.” Santos’ smile turns cheeky, and he cuts his gaze to Lena. “I’ve got - uh, plans to be sleepin’ somewhere else tonight, anyway.”

As he must have anticipated, Lena gapes at him, her surprise shifting to ecstasy by quick degrees.

“ _Plans_ ,” she drawls, blinking into step beside him as he starts up walking again. He laughs, egging her on, and she shakes his arm. “Lúcio, tell me! Come on, you can’t just _leave_ it, that’s not _fair_ \- "

Hanzo sighs as their chatter gets further away from them. Jesse has no idea what it means, but he can get behind it. So much for happenstance putting them in the same bed again - he thinks about gearing up to ask, to bite the bullet and invite Hanzo up to his room, but he can’t even begin to come up with something slightly enticing to say, so he lets it drop.  


* * *

  
Jesse and Hanzo go their separate ways after that, and Jesse realizes that they’d spent almost an entire day less than five feet away from one another. (He’d try counting hours, but thinking about the timezone jump they’d performed just makes his head hurt, and Santos is long gone.) He’d barely noticed, Hanzo’s constant presence fitting almost seamlessly into his regular life.

He urgently needs to not think about that means, as well as find something to do with his time - conveniently, drinking can solve both of these problems, and he knows exactly where to go.

“Plannin’ to make the brief pleasant for everyone, I see,” Lindholm surmises when he opens his door. Jesse tips his hat.

“Easy,” he pleads. “I ain’t here to get wasted, just in for somethin’ to take the edge off.” He doesn’t mention that the edge has a name - Lindholm’s too fucking perceptive. If he can’t somehow smell Hanzo on him already, he’ll know within the week.

Lindholm bellows a friendly laugh and lets Jesse into his quarters - cramped with tech and various weapon prototypes, but cozy with thick blankets spread on various surfaces. “Yer no fun anymore!” he wails. It sounds a little like there’s a compliment in there somewhere, maybe tangled up in all the beard. “Ahh, well. Fer the best anyway.” He starts digging around in one of the stacked coolers he has against one wall and pitches a bottle of something dark into Jesse’s waiting hands.

Jesse tries to make sense of the label, instinctively turns the bottle upside-down when he can’t read it, then realizes it must be imported from somewhere, probably illegally. Perfect.

“I’m not in yer little army party tonight, and I’d hate to miss tough guy Jesse gettin’ sissy-drunk and makin’ a fool of himself.”

“Wow, thanks,” Jesse replies, deadpan. He quirks an eyebrow Lindholm’s way as he uses a notch in his prosthetic hand to crack the bottlecap off his drink. “Wait, you ain’t part of the strike team? What’re you doing instead?”

“I’ve heard talk there’s a basketball game going on outside,” Lindholm says, drier than the Sacramento wasteland. He gestures down at himself. “Seriously. Does something about me say ‘strike team,’ Jesse? Because if so, I want to change it immediately.”

Jesse snorts into his bottle. “You know what I mean.”

“Eh, sure,” he replies. “All I know is that yer babysittin’ some kind of precious cargo. Blah, blah, somethin’ about the kind of PR crap that the commander creams his panties about.” He shrugs, oblivious to Jesse’s clear discomfort with the mental image. “Anything past that, you’d have to ask him.”

“Right,” Jesse allows. He takes another swig from his bottle - whatever it is, it’s earthy and warm and the aftertaste makes him feel a bit like he could blow smoke rings out his nose like a dragon. “Well, guess I’ll find out sooner or later.”  


* * *

  
He finds out sooner.

The team is himself, Hanzo, Lena, Santos, and Reinhardt, with Morrison in command - the mission is… honestly, exactly what Lindholm said it’d be.

“Doomfist’s gauntlet is being transported to the Heritage Museum,” Morrison is saying, his voice gravely through the mask. Jesse wonders if he ever takes a break from the drill sergeant routine. _Well, I guess someone had to do it after Reyes went AWOL_. “It’ll be under heavier guard there, and ideally we’ll avoid another incident like the one at the Overwatch Museum. It’s our job tonight to make sure it gets there safely.”

There’s a silence that Jesse ruins with a cough. “Is there some reason it wouldn’t, sir?” he asks, his perfect schoolboy act too put-upon to ever get off the ground.

He can’t see Morrison’s face, but he gets the sense that he’s being glared at. Whatever.

“Talon agents attempted to steal it from its original location, despite reinforced security, in the middle of the day,” Morrison explains. “It’s not unreasonable to expect they’ll know where it’s headed tonight.”

Jesse licks his lips and parts them, fully prepared to sass him again, but Morrison steamrolls him: “It’s simple - get Athena plugged into the transport, and stake it out until it gets to the Heritage Museum. Am I clear?”

There’s a vague murmur of _yessir_ from the room, Jesse’s _clear as mud, sir_ apparently too quiet to warrant another glare.

“We push to the forward camp in twenty. Get ready, and don’t be late - we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://losebetter.tumblr.com), if you want to stop by and say hello! i also have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/losebetter), if you're into that.
> 
> UPDATE (3/1/18):  
> so i kind of can't believe people are still reading this?? holy. you guys are, uh, angels. and for anyone still keeping up: i've had kind of a wild time, but it comes down to that i'll be moving cross-country this month for better medical care and such, and uh. hopefully gettin better? or at least feeling better. it's a long story. all i really have to say that's relevant is that this thing hasn't been abandoned, haha, i promise! i really lost my writing for a while there, but i'm slowly working on getting my confidence back, so. sincerely, thank you guys who have left kind messages despite how dead the fic is, it means the world to me. i hope the finished story is worth any wait or stress. /)(\


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